


Forged in Flames

by Shockcakes



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Mild hints of a budding relationship, Silly interactions between a Worgen and a Dwarf
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-21
Updated: 2020-12-21
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:14:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28207395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shockcakes/pseuds/Shockcakes
Summary: Sometimes you simply just can't plan for a victorian goth werewolf person ruining your chance at being a meanie
Comments: 1
Kudos: 6





	Forged in Flames

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who's been suffering playing World of Warcraft for the past six months
> 
> Blizzard won't give me the goddamn Worgen content I desire so I guess I'll have to make it myself. Also this site has no stories for Dark Iron Dwarf gals so let's fix that while we're at it

The resounding clank of iron against iron was a commodity in the Dwarven District. A great many smiths, engineers, and crafters contributed their fill of supplying adventurers with gear and even passing on their trade with those eager to learn for themselves.

Fresh from the mole machine, Sorleya deemed that Stormwind quite lacked the “lived in” feel of the underground city she was used to. The roads were freshly paved and maintained, unlike the stone paths blackened with molten soot and bubbling lava down below. The houses were wooden and vibrant, built with sturdy cobblestone foundations - not as sturdy as the carved slabs of stone in the underground fortress.

Wood was always seen as an inferior material compared to stone. Wood burned and bent and withered. It was seldom seen used by anyone in their right mind in Searing Gorge or Blackrock Mountain yet Stormwind had it in spades. With no threat of their creations being reduced to ash from an unforgiving habitat, she supposed it made sense that Stormwind made use of every material at their disposal.

It was no Shadowforge City. The Dark Iron capital in Blackrock Mountain had character. It was a monument to the growth of the dwarven clan – of the hardened and hot-tempered denizens that served and eventually broke free of the tyrannical Firelord. They may be the allies of the Alliance but that didn’t mean they needed to enjoy all of their shi-shi frivolities like _queen-sized beds_ and _cozy fireplaces_. Why would a Dark Iron need a paltry bunch of coals in the middle of a room when all the heat she wanted was right below her feet? Better yet, from a _forge_.

It was all too…excessive.

Sorleya loved it.

A fact she would never once admit to her grumpier kin. As volcano-dwelling hardasses, they scoffed at Stormwind’s inns full of delicate and untempered yokels. What would they say if she didn’t partake in their hardassery that was now fully ingrained into their brand? Would she even be taken seriously among her peers? She’d be the talk of the Grim Guzzler for all the wrong reasons. Her reputation would be-

“DOOF!”

It finally occurred to her that she’d been walking on autopilot for so long that she didn’t take notice of the towering blue blot she walked into. A marvelous first impression. The queen regent campaigned long and hard for their clan to be recognized by the Alliance and the first thing she does is bump into somebody like a double-blind core hound.

Keeping her dwarven profanity hushed, Sorleya quickly removed herself from whoever individual’s pantleg her smoldering hair left a mild imprint on. She prepared to offer an apology to the figure before catching herself.

Within Shadowforge, there was always chatter on how the Dark Iron’s rocky history would provoke “adverse” reactions to the general populace. The trick to earning respect lied in how one carried one’s self. _Take no shit_ , roughly translated in common tongue. They weren’t there to make friends and play card games, they were there to win a _war_. Light be damned if anyone had a problem with that.

Less than a second of mental fortification passed before the living wall turned to face her. It only then occurred to Sorleya how diverse the Alliance truly was. Standing before her was not exactly what she considered to be your typical human nor anywhere near the standard dwarf. The sheer size of the man rivaled that of the interstellar refugees of Outland but even then, he lacked the bright hue of skin and curved horns native to their appearance.

No, he was more…grounded. More bestial.

Piercing animalistic eyes bore down on her like a predator eying his next meal. His mouth was closed yet fierce canines poked out from the edges of it, too pronounced to be restrained by his jaw. She could only imagine the beartrap of flesh rending fangs that hid beneath.

She read of these creatures before. Worgen - creatures result of a thousand-year-old curse – most recently resurfaced in Gilneas and afflicting much of the populace. Not the first face she’d expect to see in bright, shiny Stormwind.

With the beast’s eyes on her, Sorleya swallowed the lump in her throat before the teachings of her clan replayed in her mind.

“Well?” She spat expectantly. “Aren’t ye gonna excuse yourself for that rudeness?!”

She was willing to bet that the monster would at least back off from a potential scuffle without a word due to her boldness. A minor victory. That’d be a tale to recount at the Grim Guzzl-

“Terribly sorry, miss. Are you alright?”

She flinched. She might’ve been less surprised if he mauled her on the spot.

A posh, if not gentlemanly, accent mixed with his grizzled visage as fittingly as Ragnaros summoning himself in Northrend.

Almost like a switch was turned on, she began to notice his attire. His blue overcoat was adorned with fancy gold trimmings, befitting that of a nobleman rather than a giant wolfman. The matching tophat was throwing her for a loop. It was oddly charming.

Not that the thought crossed her mind or anything like that.

Keenly hiding her disbelief, she harrumphed. “Well Ah suppose that counts fer somethin’. Mind yer bloody size next time, not everyone’s as tall as a blasted ogre!” The pixie of common sense residing in the back of her mind chastised her for pressing the nerves of the 8-foot tall chainsaw with legs.

The light seemed to favor her still as he offered not even so much as a snide glance. His eyes instead ran her down before he chuckled as though he was just told a joke.

“I suppose not.” His countenance was welcoming to an extent. At least when Sorleya looked past the fangs. “I take it you’re new to the city.”

Sorleya composed herself to keep from looking like a mindless tourist. “In a sense.” She responded dignified. “The queen made a call tae arms fer only the best smiths tae make sure you Alliance folk don’t rush inta battle with rusty swords.”

Tophat Wolf smirked. “Light knows we don’t need more of that. Ah, how rude of me, I haven’t introduced myself.” He extended his hand (paw?) for her to shake. She made sure to feign hesitance. Can’t have these Stormwind folk thinking she’s quick to trust. “Dalton. Dalton Court. And you are?”

She reined in the urge to lift an eyebrow. Sorleya could count on her hand the number of times she’s encountered someone with a single syllable surname. All of the Burnbeards and the Crashanvils and the Ragemails of dwarven culture instilled in her an instinct to expect some form of fantastical title. Something that would be regaled in story after a pint of ale, detailing some wildly exciting adventure. His was…plain. A type of plain she wouldn’t imagine befitting someone of his appearance.

 _Court_.

 _Dalton Court_.

It buzzed around in her head for a moment. It was remarkably human. Pedestrian.

She liked it.

“…Erm, miss?”

Her hair smoldered a bit brighter as Mr. Court’s words spurred her out of the mindless repetitions of his name she was thinking of.

“Right!” She unceremoniously cleared her throat before returning to some semblance of the aloof personality she maintained moments prior. “Well Ah s’pose Ah cannae expect you Alliance folk to recognize a big name when ye see one.” She pridefully straightened her back and puffed her chest a bit as though she expected her accomplishments to lift her above his eye level. “The name’s Sorelya Flinthammer. Ah’m the blacksmith who’s here ta whip yer paltry weapons intae shape.”

Dalton’s head tilted, not unlike a curious puppy. “Sounds like quite the undertaking. Outfitting a seasoned force like Stormwind’s.”

The Dark Iron made a show of scoffing at the prospect. “Maybe tae _you_. Ah haven’t seen a bloody military tha’ hasn’t been forged twice as effective under my hammer!” Her eye quickly gave him a once over in the middle of her tirade.

His towering stature would’ve made him even more of a monster to look at had he been outfitted in proper steel and plate. Strong, well-built arms with definition that not even his coat could completely hide. There was an entire faction of others with his physique. One could only imagine the horror of spotting armored Worgen beasts running wild across a battlefield.

“Ah haven’t smithed fer one o’ your kind before but a burly fella like yourself would make use of my work.”

“Well, aren’t you the flatterer.” Dalton smiled, completely jovial. A contagious effect he seemed to possess as now the sides of her lips tilted upwards as well.

Her eyes nearly bugged out of her skull barely a second later. A moment’s contemplation at what just happened, what _is_ happening. The pale grey features of her face twisted into a burning scowl of the utmost incredulity before her head tilted downward as though the stone road had a cure for the shock and confusion now overtaking her.

It didn’t.

And it left her with no means of dealing with the currently monolithic pit in her stomach. Her brow furrowed, her cheeks puffed, her nose scrunched, her frowned drastically extended to each corner of her jaw – virtually all body language indicative of infuriation made its way to her expression in some form, culminating into one burning response to unfortunate hand that the universe dealt to her.

“ _Och_ , tha’ wasn’t a compliment!”

Nothing from the past exchange of words had served to establish how a conversation with Dark Irons went. No gruff scowls exchanged that led to the begrudging acceptance of social standing and strength. No yielding to verbal prowess or the silver tongued words of a master wordsmith. Absolutely none of that had transpired in the small amount of time Sorelya had stepped foot in this city.

The worst part: Dalton had been completely ignorant of it all.

In the amount of time Sorleya took to make her face into a stone sculpture, Dalton had enough chances to take his business elsewhere. That he chose not to after her outburst was starting to get to her.

“It sure sounded like one.” He casually retorted, not in any way insulted by the facial experience the Dark Iron weathered through.

In her mind, her fellow kin tsked in disappointment. Any other Dark Iron in her shoes would’ve had more choice insults to throw his way. More aloof and reserved responses to drive home how much of a hardened, no-nonsense dwarf she was. A _real_ Dark Iron would’ve…said something about his tie. Maybe. The frustration made steam billow from her nostrils as she huffed.

The worgen chuckled, still permeating his concentrated positivity her way. “Since you’re new in town, why don’t I offer you a drink? There’s a cozy bar down the street that sells some mighty strong ale. My treat.”

As with many Dwarves, the term “ale” seemed to activate the hardcoded instinct to drop everything and follow the promise of booze. Her faux pas still stung her pride but in the end, she decided that was nothing a drink couldn’t fix. “Hmph. Might as well see what watered down foam counts as ale in this city.”

With a smile, he led the way, already beginning to point out the notable sights and whatnot. Sorelya followed close behind, not realizing how infectious his upbeatness truly was.


End file.
